Grand Theft Auto IV seems to be all over the news this week, with the big question being whether it will make more money than Iron Man. Although I haven’t played a videogame since Pac-Man (technically, it was tabletop Ms. Pac-Man), I’m not much of a Black Sabbath fan so I figured I’d give “GTA4″ (as the kids like to call it) a whirl. Anyhow, the basic concept of videogames can’t have changed all that much since the early 1980s. A set of rules to follow, which will help your heavily pixelated character (typically in the form of a pie graph with a bow) achieve a basic objective (typically involving the consumption of tasty gold pellets).
After watching a short film (I believe it was by Roberto Benigni) about a European immigrant arriving via freighter in “Liberty City” (a fairly obvious take on Chicago), I was left to control this clean-cut gentleman as he negotiated his way through life in his new surroundings. Having performed some fairly unsavoury tasks on behalf of my character’s cousin, my character was offered employment as a cab driver. Finally, a point to this game!
Suddenly, I began to see why the kids were so crazy about this game! My pulse raced as I picked up and dropped off my fares, as we “hacks” refer to them in the biz. Although I mistakenly believed that I had previously honed my videogame driving skills in Pole Position, I found the driving to be surprisingly tricky. Nevertheless, the lessons I learned in Young Drivers of Canada proved to have much more staying power. Some simple ground viewing techniques as I drove down crowded streets allowed me to swiftly avoid the many pedestrians. And Left-Center-Right scanning as I approached intersections also helped me avoid some close calls with other vehicles. Sometimes these law-breakers were police cars! (But, then again, I guess we’ve all heard the stories about how they drive in Chicago… I mean “Liberty City.”) A tip for new players: be sure to go slowly over toll bridges so that you can pay the fare- I accidentally ran through the toll gate and was quickly stopped by law enforcement. Fortunately, I was released shortly thereafter at a police station, with what I can only assume was a minor traffic ticket.
To assist budding GTA4 players, my mom and I spent the evening compiling this helpful instructional video which should get you through the basics:
In short, I fail to see what all the fuss is about. The critics have simply missed the mark on this one. GTA4 is a nice little driving game, which (rightfully) punishes the player (quite severely, I might add) for breaking basic traffic rules. What child wouldn’t benefit from learning these skills in preparation for the “real world”? Tomorrow, I’m planning to take my character out for a well-deserved drink at a place called “Honkers” (I assume it’s the local watering hole for my fellow cabbies). Stay tuned, blog-readers!
The funny thing about sex tapes involving American icons from the 1960s (Marilyn Monroe, etc.) is how relatively quaint the action is. No, I have not watched this sex tape, but I’m pretty sure it basically features Jimi walking around saying things like “groovy!”
Classic story line. Fatty murders someone. Fatty goes to jail. Fatty gets hungry. Fatty starts lawsuit. Fatty does one-third of his sentence, gets out on parole, and becomes celebrity pitchman for Subway.
Oh, those enterprising Eastern European sex slaves and their goofy get-rich-quick schemes! Did you know that the City of Toronto maintains a database of licensed strippers? Your tax dollar-bills at work!
We have officially entered “slow news day” territory. Nothing funny here, unless you can picture a poor elderly couple driving away, bickering, and the husband says “Well, I’m sorry, but the darn thing came out of nowhere!”
My apologies for making light of a horrible situation. But frankly, the teacher should know better. Instead of focusing on being a good teacher and getting to school on time, she’s consistently tardy.
Once again Food Court Lunch has the exclusive scoop: Two league sources have confirmed that Pat Riley is set to assume control of Toronto Raptors.
Sounds crazy, but it’s true. We thoroughly checked it out. The two league sources, who wish to remain unidentified, indicated that a press conference could be coming as soon as Monday morning. Now, our readers may be skeptical about the likelihood of getting Pat Riley behind the bench for the young Raptors, but consider the following:
The two league sources were overheard on the subway after the Raptors’ game 5 loss to the Orlando Magic on Monday night talking about what went wrong for the Raptors, and both sources agreed that Sam Mitchell “knows fuck all” about basketball and that “big time changes” need to be made;
The other source quickly noted that Riley is a “big time coach”;
Then both sources agreed that GM Bryan Colangelo will undoubtedly “pull the trigger” and “get Riley’s ass behind the bench”; and
Apparently satisfied that a deal had been reached, both sources then high-fived.
I know! We’re just as excited as you are! What’s that? You’re still not convinced? Just who are these sources, you say? Well, consider this: Both of the league sources were wearing Raptors jerseys! One was wearing an circa 1997 Oliver Miller jersey, and the other was wearing a 2005 Keon Clark away jersey. Exactly. We can only assume that the two sources were senior members of the Raptors’ executive braintrust.
We at Food Court Lunch wish to extend our most heartfelt welcome to coach Riley! Surely this groundbreaking announcement will be exactly what our beloved Raptors need to get over the hump and get past the first round of the playoffs next year. What’s next, an NBA finals appearance????? Or a 15-67 finish????
With today’s sports media so myopically focused on the “commercial” sports (i.e., NBA basketball, ML baseball, NASCAR, the World Lawn Bowls Championship), too often do the lesser-known sporting events fall between the cracks. Well no more! In keeping with our self-imposed mandate of bringing you, our seven readers, the finest in mindless frippery (yes, that’s right - I dropped the “f-bomb”), we proudly present our weekly update on “Unknown Sports, Hobbies and Activities That No One Has Heard Of, Except The Participants And Their Mothers“:
Synchronized Diving
In the event that you have recently been dwelling in a cave lacking an internet connection and/or cable, the Federation Internationale de Natation’s synchronized diving circuit continued to rage this week in the home of under-aged drunken debauchery, nervous donkeys, and international diving (apparently) - Tijuana, Mexico. The question on everyone’s mind, of course, was who would walk away with the coveted gold medal(s) in the 10-metre women’s event. Would Canada’s Marleau & Heymans manage to put together a winning performance, or would China’s Xin Wang & Ruo Lin Chen walk away as the victors in this hotly contested battle? More importantly, would anyone ultimately care? Well, we’re sad to report that Wang/Chen out-dove the Canadians, and still no one cares. However, we did manage to track down exclusive footage of the Canadian performance:
Gymnastics
Unbeknownst to this savvy sports journalist, gymnastics is no longer confined to an after-school activity for 13 year-old girls. Apparently, it is also “played” (?) by adults, many of whom convened this week in beautiful downtown Maribor, Slovenia to compete in the Gymnastics World Cup. Not surprisingly, all eyes were on the uneven bars event, where three young women with four multi-syllabic last names earned medals for their respective performances. Canada’s Elyse Hopfner-Hibbs and Kristina Vaculik topped the podium, with Poland’s Marta Pihan taking the bronze (to the dismay of the Vegas sports books). In a sense, however, we were all winners simply by witnessing this glorious athletic competition. Again, the Food Court Lunch investigative team managed to get its hands on the following exclusive footage of the event:
Honestly, we are all pretty damn busy this week with our jobs. The coal isn’t going to mine itself, you know. Still, Food Court Lunch is pleased to present to you the newest of our petty grudges and grievances…
Okay, truth be told, I eat a shitload of junk food. My “championship belt” of extra fat is testament to my love of the fried, the sugary and the carb-y. Christ, my name is Butter Chicken — I didn’t get that handle because of my Indian heritage. Still, every so often I like to order something healthy, something that will ward off the inevitable bout of gout or scurvy that I am sure is just around the corner. That something healthy is usually fruit salad. Between fruit and vegetables, I am more Perez Hilton than Terri Schiavo.
When I order a fruit salad, I expect it to be filled with a wide variety of fruits — apples, grapes, oranges, grapefruit, kiwis, blueberries, mango (fingers crossed!) and what have you. It’s more than an expectation — it’s an entitlement. Chunks of fresh pineapple? Don’t mind if I do. A raspberry? What a pleasant addition. Mmmm, delicious.
What I do not expect is a shitload of fucking melon.
Now, granted, I don’t know you, Mr, Wade, and you certainly don’t know me. But please accept a kind word of advice from an objective observer: Get out. Before it’s too late.
Every once in a while, the four of us are forced to exert a token amount of effort for the sake of meeting the minimum performance requirements of our respective occupations. Even rarer, sometimes we are all forced to do this on the same day. Today is one of those days.
So we turn things over to the mysterious genius SelfX and his new track which, if there is any justice in the world, will be our new national anthem by the end of the summer.
My favourite part about ‘Rock of Love’ is that Bret Michaels was obviously given complete artistic control over the type of women featured on the show. Nothing says sexy like burnt hair and cigarette-damaged vocal cords.
Caribana, for those of our readers who might not be familiar with it, is the massive, reggae-infused summer music festival in which Toronto gets its groove back. Did I say music festival? Sorry, I meant “accidental shooting festival”.
Sperm Under Siege: Proposed Title for New Seagal Prostate Cancer Tear-Jerker
Not having opened the link to this article, I’m hardly in a position to tell you why this headline is funny. Rather, it’s a Food Court Lunch policy that Steven Seagal should be included in as many news items as possible. (more…)
How are things? I hope you’ve recovered from a big weekend at the tables… Man, we had some fun! And you, my friend, were hilarious! Everyone thought so. Your running commentary throughout the duration of the game was truly appreciated by everyone at the table - don’t let the awkward silence fool you. I think the dealer particularly liked you, what with your clever rape jokes. Those were priceless! Always classy, and equally funny. Remember those? Remember how you kept comparing the sub-par hands that you were dealt within the confines of the game to being forced into non-consensual sex acts? And then remember when you cleverly likened the dealer to the rapist? That was great. Symbolism like that doesn’t just grow on leaves, my friend. That is just pure comedic gold!
Anyway, now that we’ve both sobered up a little, I was hoping that I could clarify a few of the sage “tips” that you offered on Saturday night… Sorry, where are my manners? First, allow myself to re-introduce myself - I was the guy two down from you at the blackjack table. You may remember me as the guy you kept calling “Stan”. That’s not my name, but don’t let that bother you. It certainly didn’t on Saturday night. I never actually got your name, but you seemed to respond when my friends and I dubbed you Lord Ponsonby, so let’s stick with that.
Anyway, Ponsonby, I just wanted to quickly run through the blackjack strategies that you proffered to other players at the table throughout the course of the evening (both through abusive verbal instruction and able demonstration), just to make sure that I followed your overall gameplan correctly. As I understand it, your key to success at the tables involves the following:
doubling down on 11s, and every time the douche at the end of the table happens to yell “Double down!” (which is pretty much every hand when you’re involved - thanks for that, by the way);
always splitting Aces and 8s… and 7s, 6s, 5s, 4s, 3s, 2s, any face cards that happen to look similar and, for some reason, a 7 and a 9;
continually pestering the pit boss about when you’re going to get “comped”, while being sure to use the term “comped” as often as possible;
when said pit boss ignores your attempts to secure a high-five, pretending to have just been stretching;
shamelessly hitting on the following key individuals: dealer, waitress, wife of the guy next to you, woman at table behind you, dude in the seat two down from you;
when your cell phone rings (or your “celly”, as you apparently like to call it), taking a couple steps away from the table while increasing the volume of your voice so that everyone at the table can hear you tell the caller to call you back in 10 minutes;
acting surprised when your celly rings 10 minutes later;
celebrating furiously when you are dealt 22 (and sometimes more), and then throwing your hands up in disgust when the dealer patiently explains that you are once again over the permissible limit for a blackjack hand (or as it is sometimes cleverly dubbed, “21″);
acting like a total labium.
Well, Ponce, that’s pretty much everything I can remember from your card clinic. If I left anything out, please let me know. Thanks for all of your advice, jackass.
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